


Baby, You're A Hit

by mutanitys (chekov)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Charles is a Professor, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Smitten Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chekov/pseuds/mutanitys
Summary: "How tonotmake it up to the cute professor you mistakenly punched at a bar" by Erik Lehnsherr.(Erik still punches the wrong guy, but this time the hospital doesn't seem to be an option.)





	Baby, You're A Hit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [until_the_earth_is_free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/until_the_earth_is_free/gifts).
  * Inspired by [That Time Erik Accidentally Broke A Columbia Professor's Nose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416340) by [until_the_earth_is_free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/until_the_earth_is_free/pseuds/until_the_earth_is_free). 



> Thank you so much for letting me remix your fic dear writer! I really loved how dumb and dorky this premise is, and I hope everyone reading this fic will enjoy it as much as I had writing it ;w; ♥
> 
> Note: In this fic, Hank is aged up to match Erik and Charles' ages!

 

 

Trying to get brain-dead wasted at the nearest campus bar after a particularly heart-breaking incident is not the wisest course of action one can take, but Erik Lehnsherr has never been known for his sensibility nor rationality so he can hardly feel sorry about this piss-poor idea of damage control.

Azazel is fleeting between patrons in a seemingly endless torrent of orders (it is a Friday night, after all) but even from the other side of the counter Erik can feel his concerned gaze burning a hole through the back of his head. The first few shots come without the expected side serving of nagging from Azazel; all Erik has to do is raise his hand and a shotglass would appear in front of him, an avenue opened up to drown out the events of _this morning_ —

Erik throws his head back, letting the liquid carve a burning trail down his throat and past his chest. He growls at the empty glass, already thirsty for more.

If Erik thinks he’s getting off scot-free for his next shot, he’s sadly mistaken. Azazel shoots him a disapproving look from across the counter and waves off the other bartender who was about to serve Erik before stalking over to the man himself.

"He was about to do it for you," complains Erik, but Azazel crosses his arms and Erik knows there’s no way he's going to let him change the subject.

"I’m done for the night. You better get Darwin something nice for covering the rest of my shift."

"Didn't ask to be babysat," grumbles Erik, but there’s no escaping the imminent interrogation now that Azazel is already settling into the barstool beside him.

"Alright, spill," he commands, popping the first few buttons on his shirt. He’s clearly getting himself comfortable for a potentially long sob story. Well, Erik isn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “What’s making you rack the bill on drinks?”

"None of your business," he growls, raising his hand for another shot. "So leave me the fuck alone."

Azazel is a second too late in wrestling Erik's arm down from the air because a shot glass materialises out of nowhere in a flash—but he isn't the one swaying on his stool and toeing the line between _drunk_ and _fucking wasted_ so he successfully snatches it out of Erik's reach.

"Hey!"

"When you look like you're halfway to killing yourself right on my bar counter, like hell it's my business, Lehnsherr," snaps Azazel, which is really his creative way of saying _I care about you_. "What happened this morning?"

_This morning_. It's like the events of that morning have been seared into his mind—a permanent brand, raw and unforgiving whenever someone so much as mentions _Friday morning, this morning_.The day Erik was supposed to ask Magda to meet his parents. The day he was supposed to be heading off to his supervisor's office for a final consultation regarding his dissertation, expecting a good-luck cup of coffee from his long-time girlfriend and definitely not the surprise, the horror, the _guilt_ on her face, an unfamiliar mop of light brown hair and expanse of pale, freckled skin, her harried whispers of _Erik, I was—I was going to break it off to you slowly. I was going to tell you soon,_ I swear—

"Cheated," he spits the word out like it's poison. It certainly tastes like it, even through his alcohol-riddled brain. "Caught 'er with some guy before I left for campus. Grad student too, apparently."

"Caught like... a brunch-and-some-holding-hands kind of caught or the in-bed-reeking-of-sex kind?"

"The latter."

Azazel winces. "Ouch. That's harsh."

"Y'think?" The shot glass in his hand is empty now, but Erik doesn't even remember downing it. He frowns. "I was supposed to visit McCoy this afternoon, too, but obviously I bunked off on our appointment."

"You hate McCoy."

"Much as it hurts my pride, he's also my supervisor, so not seeing him sucked. I need to—I need this paper...thing...finished."

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Erik lets out a pained groan. The more he thinks about _this morning_ , the harder it becomes to resist the urge to slam his head on the table. Not only is he watching the only long-term, stable relationship he's ever had being shred to bits, Erik's concentration is also compromised—and therefore, by extension, the graduate thesis he's worked tirelessly for.

"Fuck," he swears under his breath as he feels his limbs trembling. "Fuck, if I ever see him, I'm going to _kill him_."

"Okay, no, this isn't going to work." Erik feels himself getting pulled up by the collar and comes face-to-face with Azazel's steely eyes, though his next words juxtapose the hostility in his face. "You want something on the house?"

A loud laugh cuts through the chatter in the bar and Erik's mild haze of rage. He subconsciously seeks the noise's source and someone's profile several seats away from him catches his attention. Erik's breath hitches.

Mop of brown hair. Fluffy. _Freckles_. Erik sees red.

"He's here," Erik points accusingly in the direction of the man's seat. Azazel cranes his neck and follows his finger, but before he can form a response Erik is already out of his seat, wobbling dangerously but his fists clenching with no small amount of hatred all the same. "Him. It's him, that son of a bitch—the _nerve_ he has, showing up here."

"Wha—wait, Erik, where are you goi—no, no,Erik, stop—"

But Erik is slipping past Azazel's grip, crossing the distance in five angry strides and is gripping the man's shoulder from behind before he can even get a word out.

"Stay the _fuck_ away from Magda!"

A quick spin, a clean hit. The punch connects with the fucker's face perfectly, and the solid cracking noise is so satisfying that Erik nearly punches him again just for good measure—but he's soon being held by a pair of strong hands behind his back.

"For god's sake, Erik, get your shit together, it's not the same man!"

Azazel's words register just as the man turns around—and only when a pair of angry blue eyes look up at him does Erik realise he is very, very mistaken.

(On another note, how did Erik overlook the clearly darker hair?)

"Who the _bloody hell_ is Magda?"

This isn’t the grad student he caught Magda in bed with this morning. Erik knows him. Erik knows the man he's just sucker-punched the hell out of in some seedy campus bar—and right now, the decent thing to do would probably to ask the man if he's broken anything, get him some ice, maybe take the poor man to the nearest hospital.

But Erik _knows him_ , and Erik Lehnsherr will never be known for his sensibility nor rationality so he does what a pathetic, drunk and self-interested asshole would.

"Shit—I need to go," he rasps out, and Erik hightails out of the bar before the patrons start crowding in to see what all the ruckus is about.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_(You have 6 unread voice mails.)_

 

 

"I heard about what happened from Azazel. Both things. I was going to say I was sorry to hear about the first part, but after the second part I think the better thing to say is 'Emma told you so'. Grow up, you're not some bumbling undergrad anymore. You're better than a drunkard punching strangers in the bar to burn off some steam."

 

**_beep_ **

 

“Erik… this is Magda. I know it's useless, but I called to say that I'm really,reallysorry about this—this morning. I didn't want to be that kind of person, and I hate myself for it, but one thing led to another last night—it was the first time we... I mean—youknowit wasn't working out—"

 

_**beep**_  

 

"Can we talk? Sort it out between us? I can meet you for a bite or coffee. Or just at the park. Anything. Let's just —“

 

_**beep**_  

 

"Wait. I just read Azazel's text. You punched _who_? Well, a certain naughty boy's going to have to live with a smidge of embarrassing history, isn't he?”

 

 

 

_**beep**_  

 

"Hey, man, it's me. Dropped off some hangover juice at your place—you looked fucking terrible and I don't want you scaring McCoy off, even though it woulda been funny as hell. Calling to tell you Darwin's still expecting some nice dessert for that shift.”

 

_**beep**_  

 

"Oh, and you know, the least you could've done was take the poor professor to the hospital."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Erik knows exactly who he punched, and it seems like that very man is now out to get him through some supernatural force.

Every single one of Hank’s word is flying past his head as Erik glares at the picture of Xavier on the middle shelf behind his desk. It's a framed photo of Hank holding up an award of some kind with Xavier on his right, and it seems to taunt Erik, what with Xavier's face sporting a grin too good and too wide and _too young_ for him to look like the leading professor of one of the world's most renowned Molecular Genetics department. Has Hank always had this picture up there? Or is the framed picture a new addition?

"Erik? You okay?" He frowns, turning in his chair to follow Erik's line of sight. "Ah, that's an old picture. Well, old-ish. It was before I started doing my doctorate. Professor Charles—that's the man on my right— he was my supervisor, even though we're not that far apart in age, if you can believe it. He only ever takes introductory classes to teach but you may have seen him around campus.”

Erik has to grit his teeth as he says, "Yes, I've seen him around... and read a few of his papers." It's an understatement—he's read _many_ of Xaviers' papers, comes away from them thoroughly impressed by the young professor's ideas but always in mild disagreement. In fact, Erik punching the professor purely out of spite for his dreadfully naive beliefs is a scenario Erik has entertained once or twice—but of course, he would never have dreamed of _actually_ doing it. In real life. _Before_ _they were introduced to each other_.

"Ah yes, his field does overlap with your topic of interest anyway. Well, he's a very kind, very inspiring man.”

Erik's eyes flit over to the photograph again. It's obvious that Xavier is most likely to be far younger than other professors, a glaring anomaly perhaps only assuaged by McCoy's similarly accelerated academic achievements. 

Hank pauses. "In fact... I think he might help with some of the raw data that you're missing.”

Erik nearly chokes. "Excuse me?”

"Of course, how did I not see it before?" mumbles Hank, seemingly to himself, before he looks up at Erik with a grin. "I can't help you much with this particular set of data you're looking for, and I know it's holding you back from making the necessary hypotheses, so if you don't mind I'll direct your thesis proposal to Dr Xavier himself. Of course, only if you're fine with that?”

Erik is about to get help from a man—a renowned professor—he punched at a bar, and if he was a better person he may have the decency to decline out of guilt or at least make it right before he benefits from him.

But Erik is in his last couple of months or so at Columbia, and if he's avoided Xavier for the better part of two years then surely the chances of meeting the man the next two months is close to none—at least, not long enough for a conversation—so Erik clears his throat and says, "Sure. That's fine by me."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There's an open talk on “Ethics and Mutated Genes" a couple of weeks after Erik's last in-office consultation with Hank that the supervisor thinks may be useful to the last concluding paragraphs of his dissertation. Upon arriving, Erik sits in one of the plush seats at the back of the auditorium so can snoop out easily were things to take a dull turn. He's been bogged down with so much work that he hasn't spared a glance at the list of speakers attending the talk, has only read the summary Hank copy pasted into his last e-mail as an end note and scribbled the date in his planner. So no one can really blame him when he jolts a little in his seat as the moderator announces the arrival of one of Columbia's breakthrough researchers, _Professor Charles Xavier_.

Apparently haunting Erik in McCoy's office isn't enough for the professor. Under the warm white light of the stage, Xavier's hair looks lighter than what Erik's seen in Hank's photograph and in the bar, and he can see why he'd mistaken him for Magda's new lover that morning. Xavier has a bandage stuck across the bridge of his nose, and there's still residual bruising around the area that's showing up slightly purple on the big side screens. Erik inwardly winces as he wonders just how bad the fresh injury must have been.

Despite all that, Xavier's dressed neatly in a pair of slacks and a smart-looking, albeit casual, vest with his hair swept away from his face, the look sealed off with a broad, toothy grin on his face that only widens as he shakes hands with other speakers. He doesn't even need a spotlight to steal the show.

Eriks right—the rest of the talk ends up being completely irrelevant, but for some reason he stays until the very end anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He _does not_ search Charles Xavier up on Google that night, and he most certainly _does not_ spend an unhealthily long time on the “Images” section staring at official-looking graduation photos of Charles (weren’t those supposed to be awful?).

Definitely not.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The set of data is sent to his e-mail inbox a few days later. Erik checks it with his morning coffee, blearily trying to wipe the sleep away from his face as he tries to think of ways to approach the inevitable talk with Magda. The events of that night had shaken up so badly he's barely had time to feel heartbroken, and when he does it's always overshadowed by the responsibilities he must shoulder.

_Anyway._ Such thoughts are kicked away from his head as he reads the forwarded e-mail from Hank, scrolling down to see the 'very nice note' the Professor has, indeed, left behind for him:

_This dissertation topic is admirable—both for its sophistication and its fearlessness. I look forward to reading the finished piece. Send Erik Lehnsherr my best wishes._

 

_See?_ _Nothing bad happened,_ Erik thinks as he sips at his coffee and types out a quick and neutral reply. It was stupid to worry so much.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Erik takes it back. 

The universe is out to punish him. It really is.

Maybe it’s punishing him for the fact that he didn't take his victim to the hospital (fuck's sake, it was _one_ punch), or maybe it was because on top of that, Erik is using the very same victim to accomplish his academic ambitions. Either way, there can be no explanation for Charles Xavier standing right in front of Erik at his favourite, and most frequented, coffee shop chain.

The queue isn't awfully long so they're moving up pretty quickly, meaning an awkward bored-in-line conversation between them is unlikely to happen, but it doesn't stop Erik from silently berating Charles. _He_ was here first, after all; frequented the coffee shop with no mop of brown hair and freckles ever in sight. _He_ was the first to claim the window seat by the potted plants so often everyone's steered clear of the seat, leaving it empty for every single one of his visits. There's no other explanation to Charles' sudden appearance other than for the fact that he's only trying out their coffee today.

But the pattern of Charles becoming a common outcropping in his life doesn't go unnoticed by someone as shrewd as Erik, and he can only chalk it down to one thing:

The universe is out to punish him.

He really wants to avoid any awkward encounters, and Charles has at least skimmed through his dissertation—enough to take a pointed interest in it. So the only way he's going to avoid an awkward confrontation is by faking a name, just for today.

_That should do it_ , Erik thinks as he not-so-subtly follows the strands of dark brown hair down to the pale nape of Charles Xavier (and oh, it's freckled, too. That's kind of adorable).

“Hi there, how can I help?"

Erik blinks to find himself face-to-face with the Angel manning the cashier, the previous customer—Charles, he reminds himself—having stepped to the side to make way. He clears his throat.

She beams when she recognises who it is. "Hey, Erik!"

He smiles tightly. That's okay. There are many Eriks or even Erics on campus.

"Hey, Angel."

"What can I get you today?" 

“Just a latte, please. Don't try to do latte art on it; I appreciate the effort last time, but it was not necessary.”

"Sure, Lehnsherr,” she says cheerily, and Erik wants to drive his fist through the counter.

The slight quirk of interest from Charles on his right is palpable even from a distance. Erik stares straight ahead and tries incredibly hard not to notice.He keeps his head down as he shuffles to the counter with an absurd number of napkin holders, spending an abnormally long time at picking out a straw for his drink and deciding between sweeteners—he's never actually needed to add any, but today is a day of new habits, apparently—but his drink is still not there when he settles at the pick-up counter.

That's when Charles decides to attack.

"Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear—do you happen to be a graduate student at Columbia?”

Erik doesn't look up as he answers, a little sharper than he intended, "Yeah, what about it?”

Only Charles' fingers are visible from where he's steadfastedly keeping his eyes on the counter, but Erik can practically _feel_ the excitement diffusing out of the other man as his fingers start to drum on the table.

"I hope you don't mind me being a little forward, but I'm Charles Xavier—Professor Xavier, though Professor makes me feel awfully old, so please call me Charles. Hank, Dr McCoy, sent me your paper that concerns genetic manipulation through directed mutation and I have to say it is truly remarkable, a very ambitious choice of topic—“

Erik makes the mistake of glancing to the side at the mention of praise (he's always been weak for those) because he can see the exact moment Charles recognises him.

Charles' blindingly sunny smile morphs into an expression of surprise.

"Good god, _you_ were the bastard who punched me in the bar," Charles says in one breath, and Erik considers lying but decides against it. He's piled on too many sins against this man, and pretending to be someone else would surely drive him crazy.

"Professor," Erik ties the ends of his slowly fraying dignity, straightens in his spot and inclines his head slightly in greeting.

"Charles, please," he replies, leaning onto the counter and giving the bartender who slides his drink across a smile in thanks.

To Erik's horror, Charles stays put. It seems like the perfect moment to do what Erik should have done from the very first night— _apologise—_ but his mouth rarely catches up to his brain when it matters and this situation is no exception. 

“Your nose looks a lot better,” and Erik might as well have just dunked a whole frappe on himself, with how much of an _idiot_ he’s being. 

Charles laughs out loud, and oh god if it doesn’t make Erik feel better about himself. “Why, thank you very much. I’m glad you noticed. I was starting to get sick of having to hide my face wherever I went,” which isn’t true, Erik knows, because Charles attended a whole _public talk_ for god’s sake—the man was clearly fishing for compliments, “It feels good not to look like a dog half-mauled your face off.”

“It didn’t look that bad,” supplies Erik. Charles raises an eyebrow, looking at him sidelong—and shit, is it inappropriate to find a completely irrelevant faculty member attractive?

His drink arrives, and though it's come far too late for his liking Erik is nonetheless thankful for an excuse to escape.

"Sorry, but I must go. I have—somewhere to be," mumbles Erik, ignoring the tilt at the ends of Charles' lips and the way his eyebrows are raised as if in taunt, like he can read right through Erik that way. "Excuse me, Professor."

Once again, he speed-walks away from Charles Xavier with his tail between his legs—but this time his heart hammering embarrassingly quickly in his chest.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

When Erik complains to Azazel about his encounters with Charles, his best friend has the gall to roll his eyes at him.

"Gee, I don't know, man, I'm hearing a fuckload ofguilttalking right now," he dismisses easily, setting aside their cheap grad-student break room coffee to level Erik with a look. "Not to walk all over your pity parade but... don't you have something more important to sort out right now?"

Erik is about to argue that his (rare, hard-to-come-by) divulgence of worries is far from apity parade, but stops and frowns instead. "I do?"

"You know," Azazel shrugs. "With Magda."

"Oh," Erik blinks. Right. That's what's gotten him so angry in the first place, right? It seems that he's been so preoccupied by the recent strange occurrences in his daily life that settling the rift between him and Magda had completely escaped his mind. "She left me a voice note."

"When?"

"After I came home from the bar. That night."

"You mean you haven't contacted her since then?" asks Azazel, incredulous.

Erik shakes his head slowly, frowning. "No. It... I don't know. Haven't found the occasion to ponder over it, I guess."

"Well, I say you do it and you do it quick," he presses. "Better to tie a ribbon on that fucking baggage before it pulls you under anymore. You've got some life-changing, pressing things to worry about now. Like, _actually_ graduating."

Erik wants to argue that this, too, is life changing, but for once, he thinks he'll actually take Azazel's advice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It turns out to be a lot easier than Erik expected it to be; the sting of the memory is no longer as acute anymore and the anger consumes less of himself _than that morning and that night_ , so he's able to look Magda in the eye and listen to her reasons with the rationality he's never been known for.

Though the explanation and confession still hurt to hear, there is sense in them. They both want different things in life—Magda wants stability, Erik wants to change the world. His attempt to take Magda to see his parents, in hindsight, was more of Erik's challenge for her to verify the resolve in their relationship than a desire to integrate her into his family. Turns out such a test wasn't necessary after all. They've both been trying to fool themselves for too long, and though Magda hadn't meant for things to get that far with her new lover so quickly, it had felt so right that she unwillingly lost herself in it.

"You've always had terrible timing," Magda jokes with him afterwards, tone mild, sitting at the dining table with her hair brushed back, looking better than he's seen her in a while. "But you seem to be... mellowed out."

As Erik stands in the kitchen of Magda's small studio apartment, still saddled with the heavy weight of sadness of a bond ending, it dawns on him that he is, in fact, not as angry as she probably has been expecting. "I've had time to... think," he says because it isn't a lie. Not really. He _has_ been thinking, even if the subject in question is slightly different to the one Magda may have in mind.

"Hm. You should do it more often," she teases. "Makes you a much more wonderful conversation partner."

"You know this doesn't absolve you of your faults."

Erik's indifferent tone doesn't deter her in the least as she smiles at him, understanding and calm, and Erik is reminded of his admiration for this strong, albeit impulsive woman, once again.

"I know, and I will always be sorry for it. I'm glad we got to talk, Erik."

She puts a hand on his and he sighs. He reaches up, presses a long, hard kiss onto the back of it and gives her a waning smile back.

"Me too, Magda. Take care."

"You'll find your own happiness," is the last thing she says to him before he steps out. "When one door closes, another one opens, after all."

If a quick image of a young, insufferable, dark brown-haired professor flits through his mind for the briefest of moments, Erik only has a conspiratorial universe to blame.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

This can't be a coincidence anymore. Erik is convinced that _Charles_ himself is now actively out to get him.

Fine, maybe the first few times Erik can chalk it up to what Azazel calls his 'hyper-awareness' of the young professor and/or the universe concocting a plan against him to get Erik to live with the highest concentration of guilt possible. But everyone knows Charles comes from old money, has more than ample time to walk around the block to one of the nice restaurants for lunch instead of sucking it up with some student-budget meals at John Jay; sofor Charles to be standing behind him in the queue means the man hasgotto have ulterior motives.

"Professor," he stiffly nods in greeting because they're a) far too close for him to feign oversight and b) he's still unsure of the level of familiarity appropriate for a professor-grad student relationship, despite their lack of common thread other than Hank the mutual acquaintance and c) Charles is wearing a short-sleeved Hawaiian t-shirt. Damn New York's clammy spring weather.

"I told you, please call me Charles. I'll beg if I have to." The young professor seems to ignore the choke Erik lets out. "Goodness, I'm only twenty-six. No need to make me feel positively _ancient_."

It always surprises him, knowing how young Charles is. He'd been sure that the Wikipedia page contained an error during his not-Google-search research session on the professor. "So am I," he blurts out before he can think of a better reply.

Charles' replying grin is blinding. No combination of plush pink lips and straight white teeth should ever look that attractive on a man. "Then I consider us friends. Did you take gap years after undergrad or did you have some work experience before this?"

They move up the queue to the salad bar, where they simultaneously grab a bowl and start piling up on veggies. "Neither. This is my third Master's degree. I did have an internship for a while as a freshgrad, but it didn't work out." 

"Bad company?"

"Difference in opinions."

"Well, for a closet genius someone whose dissertation can be considered highly controversial, that seems to be putting it lightly."

Erik shrugs. "Maybe it's fate's way of telling me academics is the right place to be. For now, at least."

"How come you're not working towards a doctorate?"

Erik hesitates as he moves towards the mains row, wondering why the professor seems to be taking such an interest in him. "Not really big on the whole independent research thing. I prefer a more hands-on approach when it comes to the real thing."

"Fair enough." replies Charles."Going to miss a familiar face around, though, with you graduating soon and all."

Erik nearly misses his own plate when he squeezes the ketchup bottle for his fries. "Familiar? So you come here often?"

Charles' face sports a mock-hurt expression. "Oh dear. Should I be offended that you've never noticed our paths crossing for the past year or so?"

"Huh?"

"We do frequent the same coffee shop in my experience. And you pass by my office at least twice a week—amongst other things." Sensing Erik's gradually increasing disbelief, Charles chuckles. "I'll stop there in case I freak you out any further since I believe I've made my case."

"I didn't realise. Sorry, I—I tend to be hyper-fixated on my... fixations," explains Erik dumbly.It's true—Erik rarely goes out except when he has a specific task in mind. He'd sit at coffee shops to work towards a tight deadline, and same with the library; he'd do his groceries with an efficiency of a well-oiled machine; he'd eat out at nice restaurants for dates with Magda. He never really spares himself the time to look up and around.

"Well, I do hope you'll noticenow, since I have no plans of changing my usual routine."

Holy shit—is the professor _flirting_ with him?

"Sure?" he says uncertainly, unsure of how he should respond. Charles, however, grins like he has never been so comfortable in his element before.

"Please don't make that face. Make me feel like I've committed a great crime. Weareallowed totalk, you know."

"Of course," Erik says, a little guiltily. He hasn't meant to be rude. It's just... how does he approach a potential friendship with a devastatingly attractive man he's punched in the face? Talking is certainly okay—but flirting? Is that considered okay in the books, too?

He divests himself of the thoughts and shakes his head slightly, a different topic coming to mind as they move to the cashier to pay for their meals. "I never did get to apologise for that incident at the bar. I’m really, really sorry."

Charles takes his card back with a cheerful _thank you!_ and sends a lopsided grin at Erik over his shoulder. "I kind of inferred it from our conversations; but for your own peace of mind, I've forgiven you a long time ago."

With that, he disappears into the busy throng of people in the dining hall and Erik is left to his own musings when one standout thought strikes him:

He just called Charles 'devastatingly attractive', and Erik can't find it in him to correct himself.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Over the last few weeks of term at Columbia, Erik is made acutely aware of just how often his path crosses Charles'. The bruise is almost gone from the man's face (a relief) and with the bandage gone, Erik can now see that the high bridge of Charles' nose is in fact very complementary of his facial features (a concern).

But he's a postgraduate student with graduation on the horizon—he's not supposed to while away his time daydreaming about Charles' deep, soft laughter, or his slightly gummy smile that stretches his pink lips from ear to ear; and certainly not the way he drops a _good morning_ by Erik like it's nothing. Charles is meant to _dislike_ him for his irresponsible actions and Erik is supposed to _not care_ —but instead Charles isn't acting any less than tooth-rottingly lovely and Erik finds himself _actually_ caring.

For example, when he visits Hank's office for his last consultation (it was more of a casual farewell meeting more than an actual consultation. He's handed in his dissertation, after all) Charles is there, sitting in one of the two chairs Hank has across his desk with his legs crossed and looking right at home. His smile turns saccharine when he sees Erik walk in.

"Didn't mean to interrupt—"

"No, no, I was just leaving. I'll see you later, Hank." Charles gets up from his seat and clasps Hank's shoulder. He makes to exit, but not before walking past Erik and saying, with a small smile, "Hope you'll have a good day, Erik—though now I'm sure you'll have one." Something tells him Charles isn't talking about his consultation with Hank, and the thought kickstarts a bunch of butterflies in his stomach as if he's back in middle school pining after a pointless crush.

And then there's the one afternoon when Erik is sitting on the stairs leading up to one of the buildings, enjoying the solitude until Charles exits through a door to his right. He seems to be having a stern talk with a student—an undergrad by the looks of his attitude, probably a freshman—about some racial comments he's made about other students. Watching the interaction surreptitiously, something more than admiration settles in the still-empty corners of Erik's heart where Magda had vacated. It's an emotion that makes him want to know more about the professor, maybe over good food or a quiet afternoon in one of the campus' many common rooms.

Because this is the thing about Charles Xavier; were things to pan out a different way, punching him would probably not have been so far-fetched in Erik's mind, sober or otherwise; the fundamental differences in their opinions would make it easy enough to start a fistfight. But in a completely different situation, they could also be spending a quiet night together, arguing for their points of view with wines in their hands while bonding over a particularly tense game of chess. Maybe if they get drunk enough, someone might even get frustrated enough to lean over and kiss the other into silence.

And Erik would take the latter over the former any day.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

May rolls around without any morning and soon Erik finds himself standing in yet another graduation robe with his mother a distance away looking no less proud of him compared to his last two graduations. She's the only reason he still bothers with such ceremonies, and it's something Erik loves about his mother—she always has a way of making everything feel novel, no matter how many times they've gone through the process.

"We have to value every second of our lives, _schatz_ ," she chides him affectionately when he tries to stop her from shifting the hat on his head. They end up having dinner before his mother retires to her hotel for an early flight the next morning, sending him off with a fond kiss as if he was a fresher about to go to his first class as opposed to a fully-functioning adult whose only other plan tonight is to get his brains wasted in celebration.

And celebrate, he does. It’s a university function set up as a “social event” by the student union, and upon arriving Erik can see one or two of the notoriously more laid-back tutors, supervisors and other faculty members joining in the celebration. With drink being offered to him with every step he takes around the bar, it doesn’t take long for Erik to collapse back into one of the barstools after spending what seems to be his entire energy reserves for the next five years on the dance floor and in loud, near-scream toasts. As his face hits the surface of the table, he briefly hopes he won’t drool all over it.

"Address?" Erik hears a voice (it sounds a lot like Charles', but why would he be dragged around by...) say, but it's far too warm in this stranger's embrace to talk, and whatever he's leaning onto is firm yet soft all at once that he justsinksfurther into the hold. If it's even possible he's getting more drunk on the heady scent of fragrance the stranger has on. Whoever they are, they've got great taste in perfume. "Erik, your address, please."

"Mmm. Nice."

"Alright, this won't work," the frustration in the man's (it's a man, Erik knows now that it's a man's) voice is palpable, and Erik only gets to feel guilty for a while before he's being shoved into a cab and he hears the door slam shut. "I'm taking you to my place, but please don't freak out in the morning."

Which is ridiculous. Why would he freak out in the morning when the perfume is wonderful and the man is solid and warm and Erik can even see hints of brown hair from the opened slits of his eyes—his favourite shade of brown? Charles' shade of brown.Charles.

"Darling," he slurs, "Tha's the only place I wanna be right now."

 

 

 

 

* * *

  

 

 

When Erik wakes up, it's not to the cottony taste in his mouth (which is pretty strong) but to the smell of buttery pancakes that's as unfamiliar to his tastebuds as the couch he's sprawled over. He groans, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple in an attempt to quell the headache eating away at his brains.

And just like every year: oh _well_ , _that's_ going to be the last time he'll be celebrating a graduation that way.

But the couch is soft and Erik wants to spend the rest of the day sunk between the cushions with his eyes closed until his headache subsides. He sniffs. He's never made pancakes before, and neither have his suite mates. Nor Azazel and Emma. The possibility of there being a serial killer in his vicinity would be more alarming if not for the very obvious fact that serial killers probably do not spend the early hours of daylight beating batter into perfect consistency. So he must be in a stranger's house—but Erik's close friends can be counted on one hand so who exactly would—

He sits up with a jolt when he remembers the events of last night, ignoring the painful headache driving through his skull as he follows the scent to what he thinks is the direction of the kitchen, stumbles through the door while his heart thunders in his chest.

There, standing in front of the burners is Charles with a set of striped pyjamas and brown hair sticking up, makingpancakes.

"Good morning, graduate!" Charles bounces as he flips a pancake. "You have a bad habit of losing control, don't you?"

"Oh my god," he groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm—so sorry. I don't usually do this."

"Hm? Do what?" Charles asks, probably feigning ignorance.  

"This—get wasted, crash at some stranger's house. Extort breakfast out of them." 

"Well I don't usually let strangers crash at my home after a wild night either, but we can hardly be considered strangers now, can we Erik?" There's that mischievous grin on Charles' face again. "And oh, these pancakes are for me. But you can have some I suppose." 

Erik's face colours. Perhaps a few weeks ago, the small banter would have flown past his head and sent him packing home in shame. But _now, this morning,_ Erik can only feel the warm buzz of some smooth flirting. 

"Benevolent, aren't you?" and Charles' face lights up at the reply. 

"You know, you're quite cute when you're not committing aggravated assault. Now that you've officially graduated, you should call me when you're done celebrating with your family." 

Erik stops. It's nearing noon, so his mother is already on her flight back to the other side of the country, and he's got nothing else planned for the day. With a skip of his heart, Erik realises there's really only one thing left to do now.

He takes up Charles' offer right there and then.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at @mutanitys on twitter and tumblr!


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